


Summit

by Jennie_D



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Post-Season/Series Finale, Wildling Culture & Customs, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildlings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: The Queen in the North grips the side of the rocking ship, looking out at the white expanse of Hardhome.Officially, she is here to set down treaties with the Free Folk.Unofficially, she hopes to find family again.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 224





	1. Chapter 1

The frigid spray of the sea hit Sansa’s face, but she refused to shiver in the cold.

The shore was visible in the distance, an endless expanse of white. She stood in silence, eyes surveying the still mysterious lands beyond the Wall.

This was long overdue. The North had practiced unofficial trade with the Free Folk since the Battle of Winterfell, but things left unofficial too long could curdle easily. Treaties needed to be set down, protections needed to be put in place.

Not to mention...

Sansa sighed. The ship rocked beneath her feet.

_ Seven years. _

She hated that her rule had kept her away for so long.

It had been seven years since the Battle of Winterfell, seven years since she’d been crowned Queen, seven years since she’d last laid eyes on her eldest brother.

At first, Sansa had received ravens from him. The time between them had been long; she suspected that Jon had no frequent access to ravens on his expedition, was forced to wait for her letters to arrive to return them. But still, the correspondence was a great comfort to her in those early months of her reign. 

She remembered how he’d looked the day he left King’s Landing, a man condemned. She feared he’d lost himself, would sink into silence and solitude. 

So it was a relief to know Jon was instead doing valuable work for the Watch, getting their wild comrades settled again, keeping useful. It was a relief to know he had at least one friend at his side in Tormund, who he wrote of frequently. 

But then the letters became fewer and farther between, written on smaller and smaller scraps of parchment. Eventually, they had stopped coming altogether. 

Five years ago, she had hosted the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch at Winterfell. When she inquired after her brother, the Lord Commander nervously told her Jon had vanished beyond the Wall mere hours after arriving from King’s Landing. 

Jon had dressed quickly, had quietly declared his intention to help the Free Folk resettle, had rode through the gate, and had never been seen again. 

He never even had the chance to officially re-confirm his vows.

The Lord Commander had then been reluctant to continue, apparently out of concern for her “woman’s heart.” Sansa had reprimanded him for the understood insult and demanded he continued to speak.

“Well...your Grace,” the Lord Commander had stuttered, cowardly. “There were truly wicked storms those first few months after he left. We were still thick in winter, and we found plenty of Wildling remains after the ice thawed in spring. Since he never checked in and was never heard from...we assume he died, your Grace.”

She remembered the moment vividly. It had been a great test to her composure, hearing of Jon’s presumed death. She was proud she had managed to hold herself strong.

Four years ago, the Watch made their suspicions official, and declared Jon Snow, former King in the North, dead.

The Queen in the North had mourned.

But Sansa held her own suspicions. 

Long ago, she had resolved to be smarter than Father, had resolved to keep an ear to the gossip that spread across her Kingdom. Rumor was an odd place to find hope, and yet…

A drunk in a tavern near the remains of Eastwatch swore up and down the former King in the North once traded furs with him. A brother of the Night’s Watch from Castle Black claimed he saw a Wildling with a giant tamed direwolf slip into the trees. Pirates on the eastern coast apparently had a popular new song about a king going wild that they’d picked up somewhere.

And then there was her own evidence.

True, she no longer received ravens or letters. But occasionally Winterfell would receive odd birds with odder packages. 

Starlings and owls and even eagles would come carrying bits of leather cord tipped with intricately carved beads. The best of these was a lovely tiny carving of a wolf done in weirwood bark. She’d made it into a pendant and often wore it under her gowns.

She was wearing it now.

Sansa subtly touched the place where the carving met her skin.

She knew, somewhere in herself, that these were gifts from Jon. Just as she knew, somehow, her brother was not dead.

And if Jon lived, Sansa meant to take him home.

She knew, from those early letters, that Jon feared the North had come to hate him. The North held little love for the Dragon Queen, but murder and Queenslaying were still horrific crimes.

And Sansa could not deny that there were some who’d done their damndest to tarnish Jon’s reputation even further. The story of Daenerys’s death had been told and retold, exaggerated and fabricated and made into mythic slander. 

The secret of Jon’s birth unfortunately remained largely unknown, and the usual distaste for bastards made Jon a common tavern joke. Sansa knew of many japes and songs about “The Bastard King.”

Such songs were forbidden in her court, and the courts of her bannermen.

It was rumored some allowed them anyway when she was not present. A report had reached her ears last month Lord Glover himself had been laughing at a player’s performance of “Bastard’s Seduction and Murder of a Dragon.”

The sooner Sansa could figure out a good excuse to strip Glover of his titles, the better. She was damn sick of Northern tradition protecting him.

She wondered if such cruel jokes had already started as Jon journeyed North all those years ago. Wondered if he’d heard them. Wondered if they made him believe he must hide.

Sansa gripped the rail of the ship. Splinters dug into her fingertips.

Jon should not have to hide. Enough time had passed since his sentence. The Unsullied were rumored to be divided; she’d heard Grey Worm was leading a pirate crew that docked in the Jade Sea. They would no longer make trouble.

Sansa would pardon Jon, would bring him home, would care for him. And then would remind the world that Jon Snow had been no plain bastard, but King in the North, the Hero of the Living, the man who saved them all.

She told herself she wanted this because it was a wise political choice. The decade mark of the Battle of Winterfell would arrive soon, and it would be good to remind the North what House Stark had done for the people. How they, how Jon, had fought for the living. It would solidify her rule, would help silence her detractors. 

The reminder was essential. Despite the old refrain The North Remembers...people had let themselves forget. The world turned so quickly; many of the men crewing this ship had been green boys to young for battle when Winterfell was won. Why, there were probably only a few people on this ship who had truly known Jon.

Lord Dalba was one. After the Battle of Winterfell, the surviving Free Folk had been offered a place in the North at the Last Hearth. Most declined, but a small cadre had stayed, led by Dim Dalba and his sons. They had settled in well. 

In the first years of Sansa’s reign, Dalba had served the North with honor and distinction, had been key in mediating disputes between Free Folk and Northerners. So Sansa had rewarded him, had made Dalba an official house, had a seal commissioned and papers of nobility certified. He was one of her most loyal bannermen, and would be key in the success of these talks with his former kinsman. 

Another who remembered past days was Ser Davos, their emissary from the Six Kingdoms. 

Sansa smiled thinking of him. It was somewhat thrilling to have an old ally, an old friend, on this ship, at her side. 

Her smile dropped.

But the Queen in the North must be wary of him. 

Officially, Davos was here to look out for the interests of their Southern neighbors, who shared responsibility of the Night’s Watch. 

The Six Kingdoms technically controlled two Watch castles, Westwatch-by-the-Bridge and the Shadow Tower. Bran had been oddly insistent on retaining these castles, and Sansa had conceded, recognizing the peace between the two nations was still tenuous. 

Yet she was suspicious of his motives. Relations with the Six Kingdoms these past seven years had been a bit frostier than Sansa expected. The constant difficulty in working with them, securing trade, making sure both nations could rebuild and proper, was the reason seven years had slipped through her fingers so quickly. The Queen in the North must remember to see Lord Davos for what he was. Her adversary.

But Sansa was still happy to see Davos. It was good to catch up with him, share old stories. Talk with someone who remembered Jon and Arya and all the rest.

After all, most of the others on board barely knew of her family.

The Night’s Watch representative was Cotter Pyke, formerly of Eastwatch. He’d had only limited interactions with Jon during his time with the Watch. Lord Manderly’s legitimized bastard, her expert on the North’s trade and finances, had only been twelve years old during the Battle of Winterfell. And her guardsmen were mostly simple soldiers who had risen through the ranks, few of whom would have known Jon personally.

Time spun quickly. Especially in the wake of war, when green boys were forced filled holes left by dead men.

The North needed a reminder of Jon. A reminder that it was House Stark who had given them security and peace. 

So yes, bringing Jon home was a good political choice.

But also... _ but also… _

Sansa desperately missed him. She’d been without family most of her adult life. She’d barely known Jon as a child, had just been becoming close with him when he was torn from her. She wanted someone with her, someone who remembered, someone who understood. 

Wanted a family again.

She’d heard Tormund Giantsbane was still a prominent Free Folk leader. She would talk to him, find out what happened. If Jon still lived, they could draw him out of hiding together. 

And then Sansa would finally carry him home.


	2. Chapter 2

It was cold on the deck. But Sansa wanted to be here as the ship drew closer and closer to the shoreline, as a grouping of buildings surrounded by a massive swell of tents crept into view.

Hardhome.

She had not known quite what to expect. She’d only ever met Free Folk in hastily thrown together camps.

It looked much like many common villages she had seen in the North, with the exception of the large hall at the center. 

Admittedly, Hardhome looked a bit small to Sansa’s royal eyes. But when Dim Dalba had joined her on deck, he had sucked in a breath, impressed. Said it must have been hard work to rebuild. Said it was larger, grander, than it had ever been before. So Sansa decided to keep her royal thoughts behind her teeth for fear of causing insult.

The ship swayed as they dropped anchor. She felt the brush of a sleeve beside her, turned quickly to see who dared stand so close.

Ser Davos grinned down at her.

“Morning, your grace.” His voice was cheery as the sun dancing off the waves.

She found herself smiling despite herself. “Good morning yourself, Lord Seaworth. I trust you slept well?”

He scoffed. “I’ve slept better on this ship than I have in many years. There’s nothing quite like the rolling ocean to get you sleeping. I’ve missed it.”

Sansa nodded. “Did you ever interact with the Free Folk in your smuggler days?”

Davos shifted, leaned against the ship’s rail. His legs were not as steady as they once were.

“Occasionally. I’ve sailed into Hardhome a fair few times. Must say, they did a nice job rebuilding. The old dock was the leakiest piece of driftwood on the whole damn continent.”

Sansa smiled, despite herself. 

“Why do you ask, your grace? You planning to arrest me for my criminal past?”

Her smile dropped a bit.

She needed to remember why they were both here. 

“Just curious if the Six Kingdoms had a clear sense of the resources available north of the Wall.”

And Davos does, some plotting part of her mind whispered. He’s traded with them. Which means he has an advantage over you.

_You should have brought common merchants who live in villages near the Wall, people with experience. Not that pompous Manderly bastard from White Harbor._

Davos was observing her as her mind turned, a small frown tugging on his lips.

“Your grace, I want to make it clear that I want a good deal for all of us. I’m not trying to swindle you in any way.”

_No, but Bran might be,_ Sansa’s mind whispered.

“As do I, Lord Seaworth,” she said, voice cool. “When the kingdoms work together, all of us proper.”

_Someone will come out ahead. In every negotiation, someone comes out ahead. Someone wins. And that winner will be the North._

Davos was truly frowning now, standing awkwardly with his hands behind his back. “As you say, your grace.” 

He opened his mouth as if to speak again, then closed it. Cleared his throat. 

“I’ll see you on shore.” 

With a small bow, he took his leave.

Sansa sighed and looked back out towards Hardhome.

She hated this. Hated always having one ear open for whispers of dissent, one eye open searching for betrayal. 

It was hard to talk to anyone, to trust anyone. Even old friends.

_That’s why I need Jon._

He was family. She could talk to him, trust him. Be a person again, not a monarch.

And when she brought him home, Winterfell might be warm again. 

She smiled. 

A steward bowed, told her it was time to board the small boats and row to shore.

_Time to find Jon._

* * *

  
  


Sansa drew herself up to full height as she was guided out of the rowboat and onto the dock. Her shoes rang on the weathered boards as she walked to shore, head held high. 

A group of Free Folk waited for them at the base of the dock, clad in rough furs. Some looked friendly, others...decidedly less so.

She squared her shoulders. 

“Your grace,” Sansa’s steward began, “May I introduce Johnna Hallbuilder, Chieftainess of Hardhome?”

Sansa nodded. 

The steward motioned her forward. 

The young woman in question watched the scene before her with a wry smile. She stuck out a hand with typical Free Folk informality.

Sansa took it.

“Welcome to Hardhome, Sansa Stark. Afraid we can’t match southerners in formality and frills, but I hope you’ll enjoy our hospitality.”

They broke apart. Sansa smiled.

“I was very honored to be invited and look forward to finally spending some time beyond the Wall. I must admit, I am impressed with the Hall you’ve rebuilt here. It’s very grand.”

The girl smiled truly now, and Sansa breathed a small sigh of relief.

Cotter Pyke was hovering at her shoulder. Even after everything, his black coat still drew glares from some of the gathered Free Folk. 

Dim Dalba was gathered with what seemed to be a group of old friends. They were hugging him, pulling at him, seemed to be teasing him for his fancy clothes. One of them, laughing, called him a traitor. Though said in jest, that still seemed like a potential future problem.

Davos stood at some distance from them, obviously unsure of what to do.

Sansa was already exhausted. 

The chieftainess, Johnna, was offering a tour. Sansa found herself being guided along a path, intently trying to memorize the names of random Free Folk who introduced themselves to her.

She was listening to Johnna describe a recent spate of summer snows when she felt herself swept up in a large, furry pair of arms.

“Sansa Stark!” came a familiar booming voice. “So good to see you here!”

The arms released her, and Sansa looked up into the dancing eyes of Tormund Giantsbane.

Her guards were tense, hands on their sheathed swords. “Do not lay hands on the-”

“It’s alright,” Sansa sighed, smiling despite herself. “Calm yourselves, all is well.”

Her guards relaxed, but only a touch. Tormund looked at them, face thunderous.

“For fucks sake Tormund,” Johnna moaned, one hand at her furrowed brow. “They’ve been here less than an hour, yet you’re already provoking fucking fights.”

“I just wanted to say hello to an old friend! Sansa’s family!”

“She’s their fucking queen, you can’t just grab at her!”

“I wasn’t trying to grab-”

“Please,” Sansa interjected, voice polite. “Truly, there is no harm done. My guards forget that customs are different here.”

Tormund’s face lost its thunder, and Johnna looked immensely relieved.

Despite her annoyance with the unnecessary chaos of his introduction, Sansa was excited to see Tormund. This was the man who had stuck by her brother’s side, had been a true friend when Jon needed one most. Could help her finally find him again.

She smiled. 

“It’s good to see you Tormund.”

The giant ginger’s face lit back up. “Good to see you too. Was wondering when we’d finally get you up here to drink with us.”

Sansa laughed, genuinely, for the first time in a long while. “Well, we best not get into too many drinking competitions before negotiations begin. I don’t want to suffer defeat my first night here.”

“Pfft, save your compliments, you can’t trick me. You southerners are stronger than you look.”

Tormund looked well, looked familiar. Looking at him was almost like staring into the past. His hair was still fiery red, though a tad longer than it had been. His beard was still bushy, his eyes still merry. Honestly, the only significant difference Sansa could spot was some odd inked symbol under one eye.

She pointed to it.

“I assume this design has some grand tale attached to it?”

Tormund laughed. “It’s an old tradition. I’ll tell you about it over drinks.” His eyes suddenly grew a bit more serious. “I would like to talk a moment, when you get the opportunity.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Johnna cut in. “You’re not going to talk her ear off about some bear fucking story before I’ve even had a chance to show her around.”

“For fucks sake, it’s not about bear fucking, we’ve got real things to talk about.”

“Yes. Yes we do,” Sansa added softly, looking up at Tormund’s warm eyes in understanding.

Johnna’s eyes softened a bit.

“Aye, I suppose you would. Well alright then, let me get these southerners settled before you have any grand conversations.”

Sansa was led up some wooden steps into the hall. She could hear Tormund greeting Davos enthusiastically behind her. 

The Queen in the North and her retinue would be staying on their ship for the duration of the negotiations, but Johnna still took Sansa around the hall, showing her where everything was, where the talks would take place. The building was certainly not the equal of a great keep, but it was warm and a bit larger than she’d expected. There were plenty of tables, which she expected would seat plenty of men. There was even a balcony that wound around the hall’s high ceiling.

“So more people can see what’s going on,” Johnna had explained when Sansa asked about it.

Sansa knew the Free Folk chieftains bargained with each other publically. She was honestly concerned about how negotiations in such unusual conditions would go, how they could be controlled.

Or rather...she had been concerned before. Now she could only think of Tormund, of speaking with him, of finding her brother.

The minutes seemed to drag as she went through essential business, smiled and shook hands and partook in friendly conversation. But finally there was a break in introductions, a moment to breath as Johnna left to tend to some dinner preparations. And Sansa, for a few precious moments, was free to seek out Tormund. 

It took several more minutes to truly reach him; he was easy to spot in a crowd, but she had to field several more introductions and well wishes as she made her way towards him. People here were not shy about approaching her, about chatting and touching and laughing with her.

It was...odd. For all the newfound friendliness, the Free Folk and their way of life still seemed strange.

Finally, Sansa stood in front of Tormund, ready to speak.

He smiled down at her. Leaned over to whisper in her ear.

“Do you want to see him?”

A sharp intake of breath. 

“He’s here?”

She almost couldn’t believe it. Sansa had expected if Jon still lived, he’d be in hiding, far away from here. She expected that maybe Tormund would know where he was but...she hadn’t been prepared to see him _now._

But Tormund nodded, smiled, held out a hand for her to hold. “Let me take you.”

Her guards tensed again. Tormund looked out, as if noticing them for the first time. He frowned.

“Alone.”

One guard, glaring, began to challenge this. “Your grace, we cannot allow this brute to-”

“Leave him be. I will go with him. Alone.”

The guard looked shocked, “But your grace, you can’t-”

“I will determine what I can and cannot do. If you please.”

The man back off, looked down at his feet, stood at ease. 

Tormund huffed, started to pull Sansa away from her retinue.

“Truth be told, I don’t know how any of you southerners can stand these kneeler rules,” he grumbled.

She smiled. “Tormund, you should not call the Northern delegation southern. Especially not the Queen. Some might take it as a slight.”

The giant redhead huffed out a small laugh.

It occurred to Sansa, suddenly, that she should probably be concerned. The ghostly voices of Petyr or Cersei, the intuition in her mind, should be whispering that this was a trap, that the Wilding was trying to get her alone for some nefarious purpose. 

And yet...she trusted Tormund. Somehow. Perhaps her previous experience with him had taught her he was a man who rarely lied. 

Or perhaps her sheer eagerness to see Jon again, to see family again, was overriding her common sense.

They walked past the circle of Hardhome’s standing buildings, into the mess of tents and lean to’s and strange ramshackle shelters Sansa couldn’t identify. The entire place seemed alive with activity; people were lighting fires and skinning animals and shouting and laughing. 

It was strange, being around people who seemed so at ease with her. People who didn’t know, or care who she was. Didn’t care about any king or queen.

Eventually, they came to a large tent made of bone and hide. Tormund lifted the flap for her, held it as she walked in.

The space was cozier than expected, a small fire burning merrily in the center. 

Sansa saw movement in the corner of her eye. 

She turned her head quickly. A strange Wildling was sitting on a pile of furs.

And suddenly she _was_ worried this was some sort of trap. She turned to Tormund, planning to ask him the meaning of this. 

Tormund was still smiling, his eyes kind.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, voice soft.

He stepped out of the tent, closed the flap. 

Sansa was left standing, confused, unsure of what was about to happen next. A feeling she did not altogether enjoy. 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

A voice sounded from the corner. 

Sansa’s heart stopped.

She turned.

The Wildling was standing up, his eyes were filling with tears, and he looked - _he was -_

And suddenly the years fell away. Sansa was a child again, running to the only family she had left, jumping into his arms.

“I missed you,” she whispered between quiet sobs. “I missed you.”

“Aye,” Jon answered through his own tears. “I missed you too.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was a long time before they pulled away from each other. 

The first few minutes were blissful, incoherent excitement, each asking how the other had been, saying they couldn’t believe they were actually _here_.

Then Ghost poked his head in the tent flap, attracted by the commotion, and excitedly rushed to greet Sansa. He licked at her face, and Sansa laughed, feeling oddly comforted. 

She couldn’t believe how large the dear beast had grown.

Soon Ghost had curled himself on the floor, and Jon sat leaning against him. Sansa situated herself on a comfortable pile of furs, warm by the fire. 

Jon offered her a drink from a horn at his waist. Sansa raised an eyebrow.

“Do you always keep a drinking horn strapped to you now?”

He blushed a bit. “We’re celebrating, sister. I thought it convenient.”

It was comfortable conversation. As if the last seven years hadn’t passed. As if the last horrible months they spent together, months of plotting and Targaryen revelations and death, were forgotten. 

He was just her brother. Despite everything...he was her brother.

She took a drink from his horn and coughed a bit. It was strong stuff. Jon got up and ladled her some water, spoke of the first time he’d tried Free Folk drink.

“Don’t have too much, it’ll have you spinning on the ground,” he warned. 

It was almost disorienting, looking over at Jon beside her, laughing between slow sips. In her mind’s eye, Jon was still as he had been seven years ago. Clad in grey Stark armor and leathers, hair tied back neatly, shoulders tight with tension, a small frown of unease playing at his lips.

But she looked at this Jon beside her, and her old image blurred and broke. 

This Jon wore rough brown bear fur. His hair was longer and messier than she had ever seen, half held back with two braids. His body was relaxed, his face open. Despite the many years that had passed, he almost seemed younger than before.

Jon looked every inch like one of the Free Folk. If she hadn’t already known him, she wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

He even had a strange design inked under one eye, just like Tormund. 

Sansa pointed to it.

“I see you match Tormund.”

Jon’s hand went to the mark. He traced over it with a finger, smiled sheepishly.

“Aye, I do. It’s an old Free Folk tradition we were able to bring back once we stopped running for a bit. I have them on my hands too, look.”

He took off a furred glove. Sansa took Jon’s hand, turned it over slowly, staring at the markings on his fingers.

“Are they forever?” she asked.

Jon nodded. “From what I’ve heard.”

_ These will be hard to hide when he comes back to Winterfell. _

No. That was a thought for later. Right now she simply wanted to enjoy her brother’s company.

Sansa dropped Jon’s hand. Met his eyes.

“Why did you get them?”

He tilted his head, looking puzzled.

“Because I wanted to.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not a good answer.”

“It’s true!”

Grinning, she threw a glove at him. “Don’t hide things from me, Jon.”

He laughed. “Never, little sister.”

This moment was so familiar, so relaxed. It was as if no time had passed at all, as if they were still two children playing games in Winterfell’s courtyard.

Her smile dropped a bit. She’d missed the easy companionship of family.

“Why did you stop writing?”

Jon absently scratched the top of Ghost's head, wincing a bit guiltily.

“Well, partly because I ran out of parchment and had no way to get more. But mostly because I think the last raven I sent died in a storm. We likely settled too far north for southern ravens to travel safely. ”

She huffed, a bit annoyed. “You could have returned to Castle Black and gotten another one. Or at least given word to them you were still alive.”

“I’m a deserter. If I returned, they would have cut my head off.”

Sansa scoffed. “You saved all their lives from the White Walkers. They wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m a criminal, Sansa. And the Night’s Watch is not exactly famed for being merciful.”

Jon absently put a hand over his heart, tracing his old stab wound.

Sansa almost felt guilty. But…

“I thought you dead,” she said suddenly, surprising even herself. “All these years, I thought…”

And then tears were coming again, and Jon was putting his arms around her, whispering apologies into her hair. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Sansa.”

“It’s not your fault,” she breathed out finally. “I just wish none of it had happened at all. This whole damned situation.”

“Aye, I know.” He pulled back, smiling sadly. “But I did try to let you know I was still alive with some small gifts. Tell me, did the birds with the beads ever arrive?”

A smile tugged at Sansa’s lips. She pulled the rough pendant from her clothing. Jon’s face lit up.

“They got to you! I wasn’t sure they would!”

She nodded. “Did you carve them?”

“I did. Something I picked up here.”

“How did you manage to get starlings and sparrows to deliver anything? Maesters have never managed it with anything but ravens.”

“Ulelda, our wise woman, had an old spell used to enchant birds. She helped me send them.”

Sansa smiled, incredulous. “A spell from a wise woman? I didn’t realize you were so superstitious.”

“We’ve seen dragons and an army of dead men, Sansa.”

“But still, spells? Sounds like something from Old Nan’s stories.”

“We practically lived in one of Old Nan’s stories!”

Her smile grew into a grin. She’d missed teasing Jon. “Have you become one of those people who leaves an offering by a weirwood every morning?”

Jon dropped his eyes, smiling sheepishly. Sansa laughed. “Oh gods, you have! You’ve  _ become _ Nan in your old age.”

“I’m thirty three.”

“As I said, old age.”

Jon groaned, smiling. “Alright, stop your teasing.”

“Never.”

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a small boy running into the tent. He excitedly ran to Jon and started babbling nonsense.

_ “Baba, baba! Úze etúhe!” _

At least, she thought it was nonsense until Jon, grinning, answered back. 

_ “Házǝ, timika?” _

_ “Hima pajamaine!” _

Sansa sat a bit dumbfounded watching Jon have a conversation in a language she’d never even heard before. It only lasted a few moments before Tormund came barreling into the tent apologetically.

“This little one got a bit overexcited and managed to slip past me. I’ll see he gets back where he belongs.”

Tormund scooped the child up, held him on one hip with one arm. Jon smiled, a fond look in his eyes. Tormund reached out his spare hand, and Jon took it for a moment. Threaded their fingers together.

It was incredible how common affection and touch was between friends in the Free Folk. It was even more incredible that the perpetually repressed Jon Snow seemed comfortable with it.

“Oh,” Tormund continued. “And the sun is starting to go down. The feast will begin soon. Just wanted to make you aware so Sansa won’t be missed.”

“Thank you,” Jon said softly.

Tormund gave him a warm smile before leaving the tent.

Sansa looked at Jon, a bit of disbelief in her eyes. “You picked up a new language here too?”

Jon nodded. “Aye, and a few other things. A lot has changed these past few years.” His voice grew quiet, almost nervous. “There’s things about my life we must discuss, when we have more time.”

She wanted to spend all night talking with him, learn what his life was like, share what she’d been through. But she was here for a reason.

Sansa sighed. “I’d like that. I’d stay here forever if I could. But unfortunately, I suppose I must go soon.”

“I could walk you to the hall.”

She looked at Jon. “You’re going to the feast?”

“So long as you want me, and so long as it’s safe.”

“After all the secrecy with Tormund taking me to you, I assumed you wanted to hide out here.”

“Well, it depends on who came with you. If possible, I have to attend the talks and festivities.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Not that I wouldn’t love to have you there, but why?”

Jon broke eye contact, looked away. “All the Free Folk chieftains are supposed to attend and represent their people.”

She stared at her brother a bit. Was quiet for a moment. 

“Sansa? Are you alright?”

A long moment.

“I’d truly appreciate it if you’d say something.”

She finally found her voice. “You’re a Free Folk chieftain.”

“Aye.”

Sansa started to giggle.

Jon looked at her, a bit affronted. “It’s not that funny. ”

“I’m not laughing at you, it’s just…” Sansa breathed out, tried to compose herself. “Gods, it’s just unexpected. Imagine telling yourself at sixteen that you’d end up a Wildling chieftain.”

Jon’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Fair enough. I wouldn’t have believed you, that’s for certain.”

Sansa quieted, looked at Jon thoughtfully. “How do you find it? In comparison to kingship?”

Jon shifted, stirring Ghost from slumber. “Different. Much different. It’s still difficult work, but I’m not the only clan chieftain. There’s a few of us, Tormund included. And the whole clan decides on everything truly important. We share the load. So it’s less…”

He trailed off, looking at Sansa. 

“Lonely,” she finished for him, voice quiet.

“Aye.”

Jon looked at her, eyes sympathetic. “How’s it been ruling the North?”

She smiled humorlessly. “Lonely.”

He nodded, understanding. 

Jon was one of the only people who could understand. 

“I hear you’re brilliant at it.”

Sansa scoffed. “And how would you have heard that?”

“Our traders talk to southerners. They all seem to love you.”

Sansa’s smile returned, just a little. “Don’t you start with that ‘everyone below the Wall is southern’ nonsense too. I know that you know better.”

“Do I?”

She hit his shoulder lightly. Jon rubbed at it, laughing.

The fire was dancing merrily in front of them, the odd alcohol had lost its sting. Sansa loved being here, basking in the warm glow of family. Part of her wanted to stay in this tent forever, let negotiations pass by without her and just be _Sansa_ for once. Not queen in the North.

But she had a duty.

She sighed. “We best be going, I suppose.”

Jon’s smile dropped a bit. “I guess we should. Should I be worried about anyone in your delegation?”

“Cotter Pyke is the Night’s Watch representative. Would he be a problem?”

He looked thoughtful. “I don’t think so. He’s a good man, was always one of the more sensible voices in the Watch. And from what I hear, he’s been a friend to the Free Folk in trade. He likely won’t call for my head.”

Sansa nodded. “The other person I’m concerned about, in terms of people who remember you, is Ser Davos.”

His face brightened. “Davos is here?”

“Yes, and I know he was a dear friend. But you should still be cautious around him.”

Jon’s eyebrows rose. “Why? Davos is one of the few people in the south who always stood for me.”

“I know, but he’s one of Bran’s counselors now. And Bran...Bran cannot be trusted.”

She expected Jon to protest, say that of course they could trust their little brother. Many didn’t understand her reticence while dealing with Bran. Sansa wasn’t fully sure she understood it herself. 

But instead Jon simply nodded, looked at her thoughtfully.

“Sansa, tell me honestly. I want to stand for my people, but Tormund can represent us alone if need be. Will my presence here cause problems? Should I leave?”

“No,” she blurted quickly.

Internally, she cursed herself. Of course Jon’s presence could cause problems. Jon’s entire existence was a political problem. Already she could hear the ghosts of Cersei and Petyr whispering in her ears about all that could go wrong.

But it had been so long since she’d had family by her side. She realized her excitement at seeing Jon again was clouding her judgement a bit. But she didn’t want to hide him away. Didn’t want to face this alone, now that she knew she didn’t have to.

Besides. It would be good to see how certain people reacted to Jon. Good practice for when she brought him back home.

“No,” she said again, slower, more certain. “I want you with me.”

Jon smiled and stood. “Well then,” he said with a mocking little bow. “Shall we go, your grace?”

Sansa grinned, and together they headed out to face the night.

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as both Battlements and Wilding.


End file.
